"The paper in the vinyl folder with the embossed logo is so clean and crisp. He pages through the Welcome book, studying the lists—restaurants, shopping, attractions, room service, places of worship. Places of worship like the plaza downtown, an altar of human sacrifice, the toxic dump of humanity mangled among the remains of the supreme excesses of architecture. The World Trade Center. Man created it. Man takes it away. There is no God to blame here. Not that he ever thought there was one but now he’s sure and strangely takes comfort in the fact. On TV is the wreckage of the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania. They say there were heroes aboard but Brian wonders if fighter jets shot it down, considering the fact that it was targeting the White House. He draws a map, connecting the cities—Boston, New York, Newark, Alexandria, D.C.—with the field in Pennsylvania slightly in the distance, the only plane that was so far off course from its appointed destination. Again he pulls the curtain aside and realizes it’s the middle of the night. A lone man is crossing the median where the little hut for the Army Recruiting Station is located. Lights. Camera. Action. Bang! You’re dead."